am sorry for you two, who will have to eat plain
food and live in this miserable little town; but how about me? For my
part, I gain by all this, and I may even say, I feel inclined to thank
your grandmother. You see I have never founded a family of my own; I
have always counted upon this family. Now my poor sister is dead, and if
your grandmother had opened her arms to you, I should have been of no
more use than an old cabbage stock. So you see----"

* * * * *

Franco was careful not to let his wife know about this matter, and
although she was aware that the letters had been sent to Cressogno, she
did not ask if his grandmother had answered, until after the funeral,
until some hours after the funeral. The little drawing-room, the little
terrace, the little kitchen, had been full of people all day long, from
nine o'clock in the morning until nine in the evening. At ten Luisa and
Franco left the house without a lantern, turned to the right, went very
slowly and silently through the darkness of the village, and, passing
the bright and windy turning to which rises the deep roar of the river
of S. Mametti, stood among the shadows and the pungent odours of the
walnut-trees of Looch. Shortly before they reached the cemetery, Luisa
said softly to her husband: "Have you heard nothing from Cressogno?" He
would have liked to hide at least part of the truth from her, but he
could not. He said his note had been returned to him; and then Luisa
wanted to know if his grandmother had sent a word of condolence to
Uncle Piero. Franco's "no" was almost timid, and so uncertain that,
after they had gone on a few steps a suspicion flashed across Luisa's
mind, and she suddenly stopped, and seized her husband's arm. Before she
had uttered a word Franco understood and embraced her as he had embraced
Uncle Piero, only still more impetuously, telling her to take his heart,
his soul, his life, to seek for nothing else in this world. He felt she
was trembling violently in his arms, but neither then nor afterwards did
a word on this subject pass between them. At the gate of the cemetery
they knelt together. Franco prayed with the fervour of faith. Luisa,
with eager eyes, pierced the earth where it had been disturbed near the
entrance; pierced the coffin, and, in thought, fixed her gaze on her
mother's mild and serious face; once more, in thought, but with an
impulse so violent that the bars of the gate shook, she bent f